Rebecca's Tits

"Jesus, those are big tits." They certainly were, especially encased in a tight white t-shirt that made them appear impossibly round and luscious. I assumed that when released from their holder, they'd droop or drape, but the fantasy these babies presented was impeccable, amazing and intimidating. My normal me, the old me, would have avoided looking at them, a task made more difficult because Rebecca is an inch or so taller than me. They were directly in my line of sight, which placed them smack in the middle of fantasy central. My old me would force myself to look into her eyes. I'd command my eyes to make them invisible.

Ah but the new me looked at those big boobs and said, "Jesus, those are big tits." Then I looked into Rebecca's eyes. "I know you're not your boobs, but those really stand out and if I pretend they don't then I'm not being honest with you. And I really want to be honest with you because I like you. I just don't want to pretend I don't notice those," and I pointed. The old me would not have pointed, gestured or in any way indicated my urgent desire to grab hold, squeeze, evaluate and otherwise enjoy those tits.

"They are huge," Rebecca said in a neutral tone.

"You probably don't know any other way, but - well, let me tell you my theory about beautiful girls" - note that I called her beautiful indirectly - "My theory is that beautiful girls get looked at by everyone they meet in totally different ways than ordinary people like me. I mean guys look at you and all the time they're thinking sex, sex, sex and girls look at you and evaluate your looks, find flaws, hate you because you're beautiful, all the stuff that women obsess about with other women. You don't know what it's like for the rest of us. But you know what?" She looked at least a little interested to see where I was going. "I think that's too bad." I leaned toward her. "I think that's one reason beautiful girls often end up with jerks. Think about it: the jerks are the ones who have the guts to try, who'll tell lies, who'll say whatever they need to say to get the beautiful girl and the beautiful girl has trouble seeing the truth because she's been getting all this fucked up feedback from the world that only sees the way she looks."

I stopped. Even if this date didn't go anywhere, I was enjoying making my speech. I am normally uptight on dates. I worry whether she'll like me. I worry what I should do, if I should make a move, if I should back off, and all that worrying means I don't really enjoy the date - and because I don't enjoy the dates, I don't ask out more women.

My life has been full of vicious cycles like these. Take Rebecca's tits. My normal me would be figuring out how to avoid being absorbed by their gravitational field. I'd start to find fault with them - maybe they're big floppies, maybe the nipples are really odd, maybe she has a tattoo of a sailor on one. See? In trying to be a nice guy, I'd be ruining my whole image of her without actually ever really knowing her or seeing and feeling her tits. That's plain stupid, but that's what I do.

My normal me would also have a fantasy goal. I want to fuck her. I want to get her on top of me so I can play with those babies and then fuck her without a condom so I can feel her inside and then cum in her. It doesn't happen because I'm hung up on the worries associated with treating this living centerfold like she's plain and flat. It never happens because I would freaking freeze or misread the signals and make a wholly inappropriate move. And then I'd compound the problem by not knowing at the end of the date if she wanted to see me again or if I wanted to see her or whatever and God it all confuses me.

All I know right this minute is that I want to tell Rebecca that she's got fantastic looking tits and that I want to know the real her so I can see what else she has going for her. So I do. "I guess what I'm trying to say is I want to know more about you. I can see what you look like and that's fantastic, but you know I want to . . . I want to . . . I'm looking for the right words here." I looked to her for help. "I don't want to say I want to get to know you better. It's a cliché." I indicated with my hands that I meant more. "It's true but I mean more. I mean . . . I think there's something special about you. I don't know what it is exactly, but I get that feeling."

A tremendous amount goes through your head at every moment. Most of it never reaches the surface; it gets cut off somewhere below, subsumed into another thread, rendered irrelevant and consigned to the depths of your unconscious self. But every now and then, the full realization of a moment floods over you. You are gripped by a vision of the all-encompassing complexity, the texture of all your thoughts, everything in that one moment perfectly aligned - and then passing once more into the chaos of the ordinary.

I may sound like a guy who can't get a woman, but the opposite is true. I get women all too easily. The problem, my problem, is that I'm not happy with myself, with my looks, with my personality, with my whole way of being. I don't feel like I'm ever in control of what I'm doing, so I don't feel comfortable. I shy away from some women - usually the ones I want the most - and end up with others and then find that I don't really want to be in bed with them, not if it means they want more from me than a night or two of purely physical exchange. For reasons that have never been clear to me, these women do want relationships, almost every one, and that has confused the heck out of me, as though life is there for the picking if only I could understand a little better.

I see this girl and she is really cute but for some reason my whole mind locks up in her presence. And that girl is so incredibly sexy but the thought of actually mounting her makes my insides quiver not in anticipation but fear. What if I can't satisfy her? What if I fail? What if the woman I find sexy finds me repulsive?

Women tell me I'm very good looking, even gorgeous, but I've never bought it. I used to look in the mirror and call myself "the dog-faced boy" and I still feel that way. My skin is too pale. My hair is a weird color. I have wide shoulders and a small waist, but I don't have big muscles. I've measured my cock at a hair short of seven inches but it looks so damn small to me. I'm not tall. I'm not short either, but I always feel small.

Friends in high school used to mess up my hair because they said it always looked too perfect. I had no idea what they meant because I wouldn't even comb it in the morning. Other kids' mothers used to take snippings from my shoulders in the barber shop, saying "I'll match this color." I felt like crawling under a rock.

Why am I this insecure? I've always been shy, painfully shy. I sometimes think it's because I was very aware when I was young, that I could see too far into what was happening around me before I was ready to put it in perspective. I'm deathly afraid, but I don't know what I'm afraid of. It's like I'm still that little kid seeing the world, being confused and frightened by it and then retreating from it, hiding in my room whenever I can, getting lost in my thoughts - half of which are about why I'm so afraid.

I long ago decided that you have two choices, but you really don't have a choice at all. You can try to do things naturally, going with the flow, or you can try to think it all out, following your thoughts down every wrong turn in the hope that one of those trails will lead you out of the forest. Two choices may exist, but I was never able to choose the first. As much as I wanted to relax, I couldn't. I wanted to let life take me so I could experience without worry, without always having a voice in my head saying "no", but I couldn't get past my need to analyze every aspect.

That was old me. New me doesn't give a fuck. New me is the old me who maybe, just maybe finally put the pieces together. It came on me in a flash. I was playing pool with a friend, talking about nothing, playing with Harry and Lucy, his Rottweilers. I almost lost a leg in an accident when I was young and, while I'd recovered thanks to extraordinary luck and a very good surgeon, I'd always felt weak and damaged, crippled in an undefinable but real way by the experience. My leg would never be good. It could never stand up to real punishment. It would let me down. So I avoided giving my leg the chance to fail. I turned avoidance into an art.

When it was my turn to shoot, I had to lean way out over the table, lifting one leg high in the air while balancing on the other. One of the dogs, in a canine fit of affection, pushed hard against the leg holding me up, my bad leg, and all the thoughts shot into my mind, flashing like a giant warning beacon: "It's weak. It's going to crumble." But at the same moment, I'd instinctively reacted by stiffening my knee and pushing back at the dog. My leg held and in that moment of insight I knew the only difference was that it felt odd, that my leg was strong, perhaps stronger than the other, but it didn't feel the same. I made the shot and ran my hand over the ridge on my hip where I could feel the scar line. Some of the nerves had been damaged, not the deep ones for function but those nerves that tell you on a superficial level how things feel.

That was not the moment of true learning. I went to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and told myself I should accept that my leg is not weak, that it just feels different. I'd noticed this a hundred times before, but now I felt like I might actually understand what that meant. My leg felt different and that was all. There was nothing wrong with it. I was not weak. My leg would not fail. I would not fail.

The question then immediately popped into my head: then why do I see flashing lights every time I think about my leg or try to do something with it? The answer entered me, not just my mind, but every part of me. The flashing lights, I realized, were there to attract me but I'd interpreted them as a warning not to look. When I thought about my leg, I'd turn away from the light when the light was actually intended to get me to look. I'd reversed the meaning. I felt a relief that can't be described, though later I felt stupid for not understanding the obvious.

I decided to look for flashing lights and move toward them. If they flash, I told myself, I must reverse my instinct to run and instead do the opposite. It just so happened that a lot of those lights were connected to women. Oh God how I love women, the way they look and walk and feel and sound and the way their bodies fit to man's.

My instincts were so ingrained to turn away from the flashing light that my shyness at first grew worse. I was now more aware of the flashing light so instead of simply trying to ignore these women, I was now actively fighting the urge to do something, which made dealing with them more painful.

I don't know what pushed me over the edge. I know the moment, but not the why. I found myself standing on the train next to a particularly beautiful girl, a girl I'd seen getting off at my stop before, and just started to talk to her. It wasn't hard at all. It was easy. I commented on the book she was holding, offered an interesting (to me) opinion on that author, and we conversed. We walked out together, made plans to meet that evening and ended up in bed that weekend. We went out off and on for three months and we'd probably still be seeing each other if other girls hadn't entered the picture.

She was a girl far too pretty for me, far too sophisticated in dress and manner. I may be smart but there's a huge difference between holding one's own in clever conversation and feeling at home in the world. Over our time together, what amazed me most was that exact sense of comfort, that I did belong in her world. As long as I was relaxed, everything went smoothly, as though I had the master control knob in my hand and had turned it all the way to easy. We didn't go further because she wasn't right for me in a deep way, like I couldn't see us having children and raising them without them being extremely screwed up.

My sex life continued to get better as my self-image improved. I picked up a girl in line at the market. It was easy. It involved talking to her. We discussed our food choices. I pointed to a picture of Jennifer Aniston and wondered aloud if people think she's prettier than she is because she's famous or if fame is actually a form of being pretty, no different than great legs or sultry eyes. She cooked me dinner and we had sex that evening, less than four hours after we met. I saw her off and on, too.

I had decided to say what was on my mind and do what I wanted, not without care or regard for feelings but in the general context that I'm a reasonably nice guy who tries to be sensitive to a girl's needs. I was finally able to choose to go with the flow. Women attracted me and I went toward their light. With each conversation, then with each caress, I realized that the key for me was to find each light and move toward it until it went away.

Then I met Rebecca. If a beautiful girl is a flashing light, then Rebecca is one of those high intensity searchlights they use at movie premieres. Her face, her figure, she was every sexual fantasy bundled in human form and the light she gave off in my head was so intense I literally turned and almost ran away. It took three solid exposures to her before I could stomach the intensity of the light playing in my brain, before I could venture speaking to her.

Our first conversation was not up to my usual standards. I fumbled for words, felt panic stricken and almost bolted when something powerful told me to go with the awkwardness.

"Did you ever," I paused. "Do you ever get tongue-tied? I don't usually, but I am now. I think you intimidate me." I started to laugh. "It makes me wonder if I'm supposed to talk to you because, I don't know, maybe it means more somehow. Or maybe it means I'm supposed to run and hide. It's pretty silly, isn't it?"

She could only nod. Let's be honest, no matter what I said, she could turn me down. She could find me unattractive if I had developed the greatest line of bullshit since P.T. Barnum. When you understand that, what difference does it make if you're smooth or not, as long as you cover the basics, like actually showing interest and not leaving the issue in doubt. I asked Rebecca out with perhaps the lamest lines ever used, that we should go on a date and if I can't talk then we'll agree I'm an idiot and leave it at that.

That takes us back to the beginning of this story. Rebecca and I went out the next night, which was a Thursday. I prefer a Thursday date because it isn't a real date night; the restaurants aren't crowded and you don't absorb that tension from the air of a Friday or Saturday when everyone is out looking for a catch and sexual tension and frustration is all around, usually fueled by too much alcohol. When you go out Thursday, if the date doesn't work, you can use work to get out of the date early. It's the same idea as meeting for lunch or coffee but with a little more risk. If the date does work, then it's not so bad to go in tired on Friday with the whole weekend ahead to get farther along with her.

Rebecca and her tits, those magnificent tits. She wore a tight top, which set off lightning bolts in my head. I followed her to our table, watching her long legs stride languidly as her hips swayed with a completely natural and sensual ease. Her hair was down, a blonde cascade that draped over her shoulders and led my eyes right to her nipples. I wanted to leap over the table on top of her or excuse myself to go to the bathroom and never come back.

I'm going to cut to the chase here. I fucked her that night. Without a condom. Which was her idea. And those tits. Oh my Lord, they were firm, with a lot of heft and shape. I'd felt tits like that only once before - natural tits, that is - on a topless dancer in Tampa. She was older, late 30's, a little hard around the face, trying to earn what she could from the big bags attached to her chest, when it was obvious the alternative was giving head and spreading her legs. For the standard $20, she gave me an illegal, full contact lap dance, but no touching below the waist. As I was squeezing and bouncing those juicy boobs, I realized they'd kept her ass off the pavement, that another woman just like her but with a flatter figure would have had to use her mouth and pussy as her money makers.

The old me would have been worried about my morals. Truth is Rebecca was a nice kid, but not the deepest pool or sharpest quill and I would have wondered if the entire evening weren't my salesmanship in action. We had a great date, a wonderful time full of laughing and sharing and an obvious physical connection. Did she pull me into her bed because she really liked me or did I just hit the right notes? The old me would have done it but not enjoyed the experience to the fullest. The new me banged her brains out and had a great fucking time. Who the hell am I to judge this girl on one date? So she's not too brainy. So she's not the most interesting person I've ever met. She's nice. I like her. She's incredible looking. Maybe she'll grow on me. Maybe I'll be so frigging happy that we'll get married and have a dozen kids. I'll never know if I don't give her a chance and if she's going to invite me between her legs then I'm going to have a great time.

Let's take a minute to discuss what having a great time means. I'm not an asshole. Well, I'm not a total asshole. I'm probably an asshole in some ways but I'm definitely not in every way. I get pleasure from taking my own and from giving it. When Rebecca got so hot that she asked me to take off the rubber, that made me feel great. When she moaned and whimpered, when she asked me to suck her nipples, when she cried, "Oh God" and "Yes" and "More", that made me feel fantastic and made me want to put out even more for her.

I was on top. Her legs were spread so far apart she was almost doing the splits on her back. Her pelvis was pushing against me as I pumped my cock inside her. Our cheeks pressed together - I wanted her to feel the closeness of making love while having hot sex. "I wish you could come inside me," she whispered, her lips reaching for mine.

"You mean without a condom? Can we do that?"

Rebecca paused as I did. She licked her lips. She nodded.

"You're sure?" I really wanted this. The old me would have been quiet but the new me said, "I really want to feel you. I can try to pull out if you want."

She swallowed. I pulled out, reached down and took my extremely hard cock in my hand. "Should I take it off?" She said yes. I slid the rubber off and lifted my cock to line up with her opening. "In?" She nodded. I entered her and to let her know I appreciated it said, "God, you feel absolutely perfect." She did, too, firm but wet, tight and lively. I concentrated on enjoying the next strokes, then realized I still had the rubber in my hand. I raised myself on one elbow, stroking into her all the time, and touched the rubber to one of her massive boobs. I drew it in a circle around the outer rim and then again, closer to her nipple. I wanted her to feel that we were sharing this moment of unprotected sex. I wanted her to get into the fantasy of the banging, not to put it out of her mind or to be worried. When I was sure she was relaxed seeing the rubber against her beautiful white tit, I cooed at her, "Baby, it's just us." I put the rubber on the bed, lowered my face to hers and kissed her.

I like being on top. I like grinding my hips in a circle, finding the connection between my pubic bone and her clit, driving her wild, making her make sounds, mixing soft strokes with deep hard pushes. On top, I can feel my own hardness. She can feel my balls slap against her.